


Just a Maybe

by Katraa



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Frotting, I love this pairing, M/M, Some Fluff, bar au, brats being brats, can't you tell, drunk makeouts, finger banging, meeting at a bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katraa/pseuds/Katraa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you look over your shoulder, you meet empty, cold, green eyes that stare back at you lifelessly.  You don't know these eyes and you don't care to get to know them, either.  You try to wrench your fist back, but with the booze in your system and this stranger's strength, it's in vain.   So you shut your trap.  Just this once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Maybe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cle4rs.tumblr.com](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cle4rs.tumblr.com).



> I wanted to write something (and this won't be the last) for Noiz's birthday. I stumbled across the AU idea post and it spiraled from there. Furthermore, I wanted to try out a different writing style. So bear with me if this is rough around the edges!
> 
> ALSO THIS IS FOR YOU DEAR. THANKS FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY CRAPPY SLY!!!!  
> i didn't know if you had an AO3 account just let me know?!

You sit at the far end of the bar, minding your own business. You're halfway through your drink of choice - whiskey and coke because it's cheap and it works - and you've lost count. Is this your third? Your fourth? Maybe it's your fifth. The bartender, some pretty little blonde girl with big breasts keeps feeding you alcohol and maybe it's your natural charm that is getting you all these free drinks. It doesn't matter, though, because you aren't going home with anyone. Furthermore, you don't even have a place to call your own - a home. You wrinkle your nose at the word and finish your maybe sixth glass and close your eyes.

That's around the time some guy sits next to you. He smells of pungent weed and body odor and booze. It's a sinister mix and you almost gag and insult him on the spot. But instead, you open your eyes and glare at the dark-haired, smirking stranger. His face makes you want to punch it even before he opens his mouth.

"You come here a lot, don't you," he says, his words spoken so slowly that it barely makes sense to you.

"No shit," you say and roll your shoulders into a defensive shrug, "what's it to you?"

"Nothing. Just wonderin' if you're lookin' for a good time," he says nonchalantly. 

You should have expected his hand on your thigh but you're too tipsy, too buzzed, to think about next steps. So it's there, his hand, and it feels uncomfortable and you want to throw up even more. You usually don't mind people touching you, using you, but tonight you just want to be alone and this stranger is testing your limits. Maybe it's the bad cologne under all that shitty clothing, or maybe it's the combination of scents you noticed earlier. Either way, your eyes are getting dangerously dark.

"Don't touch me," you ground out, voice low and authoritative and not the nineteen year old boy you really are.

He looks shocked but then he laughs. It sounds hollow and for a second you can relate.

"What a fuckin' priss," he says and his hand doesn't move away. Actually, it climbs up higher, dangerously close to your inner thigh.

"I said--" you begin again, voice dropping even lower and there's fury and drunken rage in your eyes. You're about to raise your right hand, about to curl it into a fist and punch this drunkard out - who you've just noticed has this stupid snake tattoo on his neck - when your fist is caught from behind. No, it isn't the snake-dude, and no, it isn't the cute bartender.

When you look over your shoulder, you meet empty, cold, green eyes that stare back at you lifelessly. You don't know these eyes and you don't care to get to know them, either. You try to wrench your fist back, but with the booze in your system and this stranger's strength, it's in vain. So you shut your trap. Just this once.

"Who the hell are you?" the drunkard asks, sounding hostile but in no way shape or form looking for a fight. It's pathetic, you think.

"My boyfriend," the second stranger drawls, giving your fist a weak shake as his eyes drift from you and then to the drunkard, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to him."

"What a fag…" the snake-guy growls and drunkenly gets up from his stool and makes his departure, nearly tripping on the girl dancing nearby. 

It takes you a minute to catch up with everything. The first thing your mind decides to dwell on is how rough and low the voice is that's behind you. It sounds foreign and yet oddly fluent and it makes your skin crawl in a good way. The second thing you think about is that the hand on yours is roughened up and dry and you wonder if this guy fights just as much as you do. The bandages are a big clue.

By the time you finally get around to turning to him, your fist is released and the blonde-haired savior is getting up to leave.

You smirk. Mostly because you're drunk and partially because you haven't fooled around with anyone in weeks. Your life is shitty and people are even shittier and this guy maybe deserves to have his cock sucked for helping you out in that tight spot. Because that's what people want, right?

He seems to notice your lewd look and before you know it he's licking his lips. You wonder if it's subconscious, but you keep staring and you cock your head to the side, golden eyes shimmering and whispering of danger.

"Sly."

As you say it, you wonder if you're talking about yourself - because that's your name after all - or the stranger's clever maneuver.

It doesn't matter because he looks at you with apathetic eyes holding the tiniest bit of understanding and you both move from the bar to the exit of the establishment.

* * *

This isn't the first time you've ended up in someone's apartment and it's probably not the last.

You're still buzzed so the niceness of the place is lost on you. It seems to be a trend tonight. Despite that, you enter the apartment, still haughty and hands itching to feel skin, to feel alive. That's part of why this is so addicting, you conclude. When you're messing around you feel useful, in control, and alive. It's a rush.

About that time the stranger is nudging you up against the door. Your back hits it and then there's nothing but lips and teeth and snakebites rubbing against your chin. It's hot and you open your mouth greedily to let his tongue lick at your lips and then evade your mouth. There's a piercing on that tongue, you realize, as it rubs against your tongue, making your toes curl and your body shudder pleasantly against his. It's really hot and you have to remember to look into getting one.

His hands - those rough hands - are on your hips now and they're eagerly shoving up your tank top and making quick work with getting your hoodie off. You don't care and instead focus on making delectable, wet noises into the kiss. If you can call it a kiss. You don't usually, since those were the things your parents used to give you at night when they were still around. 

The stranger moves his mouth to your neck and bites down along it. You're insanely sensitive, of course, and it just makes you get louder, legs spreading out of instinct. 

Everything is happening so fast - probably the alcohol - and a hand that had been on your hip is now at your crotch, undoing your pants in record-time. There goes your zipper and button and now there's a warm, warm hand snaking its way into your boxers. Your breath hitches and you lean further back against the door. Your hips pivot forward and your already half-hard dick meets that warm hand. You sigh.

There aren't any words spoken as that strangely skilled hand moves up and down your shaft, quickly and almost painfully. The pain, though, tends to turn you on and at this point you sound like you're mewling. Your toes are still curling and your hands are now tangled in the stranger's short - soft - blonde hair. Your mouths are together again and you feel so alive.

His hand continues jerking you off, thumb rubbing against your leaking tip's slit, and you whine. Your hips grind forward into his hand, begging, begging for more friction, and you feel like your control is slipping. That's fine, though.

But it's over too soon and his hand is gone. 

You open your eyes, confused, before _your_ hand is guided to the front of his stupid black and green pants. Wordlessly, you begin undoing them and you greedily take his half-hared dick - why is he still only half hard - into your hand and begin thrusting, pumping. You notice piercings down near the base and you find that even hotter. You watch his expression, his closed eyes, and notice he's barely reacting. It pisses you off and you use your free hand to tug lightly at the piercings down near his balls. Apparently that gets him going because you feel the flesh in your hand twitch to life, harden, and he parts his lips. You barely hear the sigh that escapes him, but you feel proud nonetheless.

You keep this up for a good minute or two before he swats your hand away. There's no more touching. You're confused and horny and desperate and you realize you don't even know his name.

He says nothing and reaches over to the nearby drawer. It's close, so he doesn't have to move far. He grabs a bottle of what looks like lube. For some reason, that startles you so instead of letting him get away with whatever he has in store, you press your groins together and _grind_. You grind hard and you feel him, hear him, drop the bottle.

You keep rolling your hips and moaning and you feel him getting into it. Your hands are grabbing painfully hard onto his hips and you can feel how hard his dick is against yours, against your thighs. It's wet and it's so hot and despite not wanting it in you, you want it against you. You want this so bad and it has to be the whiskey talking.

Your tempo picks up and its messy and filled with moans. His hand somewhere along the way ends up down near your ass and it's just teasing your entrance. It's kind of cute, maybe, and the way his rough fingers prod but never enter is hot. All of this is hot and it's making your stomach get smeared with precum. Or maybe that's his?

It isn't long after that you come apart, moaning and pressing as close to this stranger as you can. A few tugs to his piercings gets him there, too. You think he looks beautiful when he's wrecked like this. 

You think that's a silly, dangerous thought to have.

But then again, you think this as your body slips and you pass out, the alcohol in your system too much for your weak, food-deprived body to handle. You're just too tired.

* * *

When you wake up, it's not in your bed or the bed of Mizuki or whoever else who always seems to lend you a hand when you're down. No, when you wake up, it's in a bed that smells like mint. You open your eyes, ignoring the headache you have, and stare blankly. The room is not really decorated and you don't really care. Your eyes settle on the blob next to you and it takes you a solid thirty seconds to realize it's a person that has his back to you. It's the brat from the night before. He's on his phone, playing some weird game. He has these weird black square glasses on and in the morning light you can see the tiniest freckles on his face. He's foreign and he's cute.

You think about pretending to go back to bed, if only to save some embarrassment, but he notices you're awake. It's all over.

"Finally," he says and you huff immediately, eyes narrowing.

"What the fuck happened?" you ask, groaning just for effect. If you don't, you're afraid you may sound as confused and oddly terrified are you're feeling. It's new to you.

"Tch. Before or after you came on my shirt?"

You feel your face heat up and you scoff even louder. What a rude brat. You roll your eyes and drawl out, "After."

"Dunno. Passed out, I guess," he says, oddly undisturbed.

You want to yell but you don't. Instead, you push yourself up and out of his bed and down the hall. You find his bathroom and you take a shower. 

But you can't wash the feeling of his look off you. 

It's new to you, too.

* * *

The next time you see him it's at the bar again. Snake-guy isn't there but _he_ is. You still don't know his name.

You've had a shitty weak and your Grandma kicked you out again. You feel like your world is crashing down on you and you want somewhere to hide. Thankfully, this guy is here, this pretty little blonde, and you feel a semblance of hope swell up in your chest. It's dangerous but you don't care.

You're pretty confident when you head over to him, blue hair swaying with your hips. When you reach him, he's already looking you up and down, licking his lips again. You find it endearing and you don't know why.

"Hey," you say in way of greeting. You aren't drunk this time. Not yet.

"Yo," he responds blandly but there's definite interest in his eyes.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" you ask but you aren't sure why you care.

"Does it matter?" he asks.

"No," you say and you reach for his wrist, fingers curling around his warm, warm skin. "Hey, let's go somewhere," you offer.

"'kay," he says.

And the two of you get up and leave the bar again. It's much easier this time and that should scare you, too.

But it doesn't.

* * *

This time around, he's on his knees sucking you off. You managed to make it the couch and you think that's a great accomplishment. His teeth and tongue are doing lewd things to your dick and you have your hands shoved in his hair, begging, begging for more. It's really hot and you feel sweat pooling on your skin. You still don't know his name. You haven't thought to ask. 

By the time you get around to coming - he was the first to tonight anyway - you aren't sure what to do or say. Last time you had passed out and last time it had been easy. This time, you look at him uncertainty, pretending to be bored. He sees right through you and he meets your gaze. Without a word, he gets up and with a slight tip of his head, gestures for you to follow him back to his room.

You sleep there, but you sleep with his back to him.

You don't ask his name because every time you've learned someone's name, you've lost them.

* * *

It's the third time you're back at his place. You finally make it to his bed and you've been speaking the whole time. You've been making out and your lips are bruised and your cock rock hard. You want nothing more than to grind against him or have his pretty lips on your dick, and you start voicing that. He just smirks, chuckles, and you feel yourself coming apart at the seams.

"What's your name?" you finally ask between mashing of lips.

He's getting you on his bed, climbing on top of you. His hand is going between your legs, squeezing at the bulge in your pants.

He acts like he doesn't hear you. You frown.

"Oi, brat. What's your name?" you repeat, more irritated than anything.

Another squeeze and another moan and he asks, "Why does it matter?"

You shrug. "I wanna know what to scream this time," you say. 

It's not the truth and you both know it.

"Noiz," he says after a long pause and then he squeezes again.

You start moaning and the clothes go pretty fast after that. He's so pretty naked, even with all the cuts and bruises and scars. You haven't really thought anyone was this pretty in awhile and the word is becoming part of your everyday vernacular. 

Your bodies, naked, are sliding up against one another, your cocks both hard and eager and you just want to come apart with him. You know his name now and you wonder if the the third time is the charm. You haven't actually fucked with a guy before but for some reason, this blonde - this Noiz - makes you feel safe.

When you have that thought you bite hard on his lip. You're terrified. You're growing attached to this and it's dangerous. Your heartbeat is racing and you try to focus on the fingers now probing inside of you, covered in lube. It's burning and it's hot and you arch your back, urging those fingers in deeper. Your eyes are shut and you don't want to cry, don't want to think about what this all means.

You were made to destroy. You weren't made to make anything - you weren't made to get attached.

The fingers go away and then there's something harder, bigger pressing against you. He looks at you, licks your cheek, makes you open your eyes. You stare back at him and you notice the tinniest bit of concern, of care. You haven't seen it before. It makes your chest warm and you don't know why that is.

The fear from earlier is gone and there's definitely _kisses_ to your cheeks at this point. You can't help but crack a tiny smile - and he sees it because he chuckles and calls you _beautiful_ as he pushes inside you.

You cry out in pain first and then in delicious pleasure. You haven't felt like this in forever and you think it's better than breaking people. You like it. You like it a lot.

He starts pounding into you soon and your hands grab at his back, as tight as you can. Your nails leave marks on his already marred skin and you moan as you fuck. It's wet and messy and everything you imagined having sex with a guy would be. And yet it's nothing like you imagined.

His breathing is all you hear and you can smell mint from his hair - is that his shampoo? - and his voice sounds rougher than usual and you can tell he's German. He's definitely German, because he's muttering in it and it turns you on even more. 

Your dick is straining, dying for release, and when he moans 'Sly' at you, you correct him. You tell him Aoba without thinking.

When he comes, inside of you and fast and hard, his piercings rubbing against your entrance, he calls you by the name you're supposed to hate. And you call him by his, too. You just don't know he hates his name as much as you hate yours.

* * *

It's raining and you're standing in an alleyway near the bar you frequent. Your hood is pulled up but your hair is soaked. You've been kicked out again and you're out of cigarettes. There's nothing really happening in your life and you feel washed out. You think about dying but then you think about breaking people and you aren't sure what is a better solution.

You try not to think about Noiz or his kisses.

But just like fate has it, he's soon at your side. He doesn't have an umbrella either and he's wearing that stupid hat. He approaches you and he doesn't say anything. But there's a warmth in his eyes and you remember the way his lips felt on yours, on your face, on your stomach, and you flick your gaze away, burning up. You hadn't meant to avoid him after fucking but it just happened. Now you can't escape.

And you don't really want to.

You reach out and swat at one of the dangling balls of his hat. He looks honestly surprised and you smirk, feeling happy for once. And he laughs.

And you think it's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.

His arm goes around your waist and he tilts his head to murmur against the shell of your ear, "My place?"

You don't hesitate when you answer.

And you don't hesitate when he asks you later that night, after fucking you senseless into his mattress, if you've ever thought about the future and if you see yourself having one with him. 

You say, "Maybe."

And that's all it takes.

It's all you've ever wanted.


End file.
